


The One Thing

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-10
Updated: 2006-06-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 13.  Dean has a daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Thing

**Author's Note:**

> mona1347 did a sterling beta, as per her usual, despite all my whining and whinging. I fear her ruler of grammar-fu, but it never does me wrong.

Dean is drunk and Dean is pissy.

Actually, either of those is kind of an understatement. Let's try that again.

Dean is _shitfaced_ , falling down drunk, and Dean is loudly, annoyingly belligerent.

 _There's a certain irony to this,_ Sam thinks, _but it's not one that's gonna make me laugh._

Dean orders another round and Sam thinks, _Fucking drama queen._

Because the thing is…isn't this _Sam's_ job? Isn't he the wounded party here? The jilted lover?

Sam sighs and rolls his longneck between his palms. Sam had confiscated Dean's cell to keep him from drunk dialing, but Dean's remembered more choice words he'd like to say to…Chase? Chance. That's her name…and has gone off to the back of the bar to the payphones with a handful of change and a funky attitude, first two fingers in his ear and pacing agitatedly back and forth as he argues.

Sam would like to feel worse for her, but he's still a little hung up on the whole 'fucked Dean' scenario and it's possible he's not quite rational on the subject of one Ms. Chance Gray.

Streator fucking Illinois. It's a tiny nothing town, surrounded by pig-corn and a dusty constellation of other towns as small or smaller. Sam had never been here before. Dean—judging initially from the casual way the bartender had greeted him, and then later, oh _yes_ the whole _Chance_ -the-girl-Dean-fucked- issue—obviously had.

And Chelsea. Mustn't forget Chelsea.

Chance—and what kind of name was Chance for a human being, anyway? Not that he's all that convinced she's a human being anyway. But Chance hadn't even had to _say_ anything. Sam—and Dean—only had to look at Chelsea once to know.

Chelsea, who's got Dean's freckles and nose, and Mom's smile—which Sam saw once and has never forgotten. Chelsea, whose chubby face tells Sam that in another seven or so years she's going to suddenly sprout like a weed and be unable to sleep properly for months because the pain of all those bones stretching out at once. Chelsea, Dean's daughter and his…niece.

And that was where Sam's head started to feel screwed on backwards, because when you and your brother have been together—like really _together_ —for more than a decade, at a certain point, the thought of children just slips over the horizon.

"I'm just saying you could have _called_!" Dean shouts over a sudden lull in the jukebox play and conversational noise.

Sam sighs and gropes in his pockets for the wad of tired, wrinkled dollars. He goes up to the box and cues up another thirteen or so songs, barely looking at the numbers he punches in. Dean walks over, still talking nineteen to the dozen, "…no, that's _not_ what I said, Chance, I just think that—living in the digital age and all—that picking up a goddamn phone…" Coming out to the length of the phone's cord, Dean jabs his finger at the Led Zepplin and Sam sighs and programs it in, conscious of how Dean angles so that no point on his body comes in contact with any part of Sam. He hasn't touched Sam at all. Not since they found out.

Sam doesn't know how he feels about that. He isn't sure he wants to be touched. Not by Dean. Not right now. On the other hand, it would be nice if Dean would at least make the attempt. Not that it's at all a Deanlike thing to do.

"No. No. _No._ Don't you throw that back on me Chance, because _you're_ the one that said that I… _Because I never did!_ "

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair and returns to their table, careful to not look at Dean. It's hard to remember now with any expectation of clarity what his time with Jess had been like. Time had softened and glossed all the edges like a glamour shot. He doesn't remember this horrible, ugly sense of jealousy though, and he doesn't know if it's because what he'd had with Jess had been so short, because of the sheer _weirdness_ of being your brother's…life partner, or whatever, or because it was _Dean_ and it had just always been like that. Or maybe it was only that Jess had never cheated on him.

Sam drains his beer in three long hard swallows. Maybe Dean has the right idea after all. Maybe the most appropriate response to this whole clusterfuck of a day is to get righteously blotto drunk and. Just. Stop. Thinking.

Because it's been years. It's not like this _just happened_ ; Chelsea is six and Dean only ever left him the one time and Sam had forgiven him and they were supposed to be _past all this_ by now.

Right? Isn't that how it all works? You fucking forgive each other and you move the fuck on.

Sam goes to the bar and gets another beer, and a shot of Jack to go with it, bolting it almost immediately. He doesn't remember when they last ate and the slick heat of it goes right to his stomach, crashes and slides outward. No bad there.

And the thing is, Sam was looking dead at Dean's face when Dean figured it out, crowded up and standing there on Chance's little concrete porch. When it had _hit_ Dean, like a low-down dirty gut punch. Which is essentially what it was.

"Chelse," Chance had said. "This is your daddy. You want to go on and say hi?" And Chelsea had shook her head no and tried to make herself small behind Chance's leg.

And Chance and Dean had both been looking at Chelsea, but Sam… Sam had been looking at Dean. And he doesn't think even Dean has any idea how _gutted_ he looked in that moment. How flayed open and naked.

And in between bouts of _Oh my God, you_ fucked _her?_ and _Didn't you ever hear of fucking_ condoms _, you stupid shithead?_ , Sam's heart aches with that. For both of them. Because Chelsea is the living embodiment of what Sam always thought he'd have and Dean never thought he would. And there's something both ironic and terrible about that; something that would make Sam laugh, if he didn't feel like he'd also smash someone's face in, while he was about it.

Of course, it had all gone downhill from there.

***

Three hours, while Chance and Dean had argued at the top of their lungs in Chance's kitchen _not six feet away_ from where Sam and Chelsea were drawing pictures on gray foolscap with crayons, steadfastly ignoring everything else. Sam wondered worriedly if Chelsea's had lots of practice even as ninety percent of his brain tried to wrap around the idea of _Dean's daughter._

_"I thought you said it was taken care of! That you were on the pill!"_

_"I_ was _! I_ am _, dammit! Don't you dare blame this all on me, Dean Winchester!"_

And really, under other circumstances, Sam probably would have come down squarely on Chance's side. Sometimes he thought it was probably a minor miracle there weren't dozens of little Deanette's running all over the country, given Dean's history of nailing everything that moved. But that had been before. Or so Sam had thought.

 _"…just because… Just because you_ chose _…"_

 _"And what would you have done, Dean? Huh? You made it_ really _clear when you were here that you…"_

Eight months. Eight months between the time Dean had left him, naked, alone and unconscious in a motel room and the time he walked back into Sam's life, contrite, hurt and wary. Wearily, Sam wondered how long they'd been apart before Dean had fallen into Chance's bed. Wondered if hers was the only one. He felt nauseous and sick, just thinking of it.

_"Oh my God. Shut up. Just…shut up!"_

Chelsea had looked at him seriously (with Dean's eyes) and said, "Mom is _pissed_."

Sam had almost swallowed his tongue, but his bitterness had to be pooling right on top, because he muttered ungraciously, "Yeah, well she's not the only one."

"Is he really my dad?" She'd drawn a picture—presumably, and as much as anyone could tell with stick figures—of herself and her mom in front of the house. A second pair of figures, drawn in brown and dark blue respectively stood a little to the side and Chelsea colored in dark jagged squiggles of black over stick-figure-Dean's head, at least an inch shorter than the Sam stick-man, he noted with satisfaction..

"Yeah," Sam sighed and stretched out his aching knees gingerly. "Guess he is."

"Is he always like that?"

Sam considered. "Yeah, pretty much."

Chelsea's head tilted, eyes still on her drawing. She'd got Dean's amulet pretty good, even if it is nearly the size of his head. "If he's my dad, what are you?"

The question punted him hard in the stomach. Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. "I don't know."

***

"C'mon Sammy, buck up!" Dean is off the phone and in Sam's face, exhausted and sloppy and absolutely _reeking_ of too much booze and sweat. "I've got a fucking… _daughter_ , man; we should be…celebratin' or somethin'."

"I think you've been celebrating enough for both of us, Dean," Sam answers, his thumb flicking restless over the lip of his bottle as he tries to keep his temper. He knows what this is about, why Dean is so fucked up, why he won't touch Sam. It's always one thing with Dean. It's always the _same_ thing, even after all this time.

And, Sam realizes, tired, it's always going to be this same thing. As long as they both live, as long as they're both together, and that's going to be the price he pays for having Dean.

Of course, even half-drunk and pissed and sort of freaked-out, it only takes a second to recall those months without Dean. The months where he didn't know where Dean was, what he was doing, who he was with. Months where Sam searched and searched and searched because he didn't know what else to do with himself, sad and sick and worried. He remembers when Dean lost his eye and the ugly months after it; he's still got the scar to prove it. He remembers when they both almost died, when he thought they _would_ , or that Dean would and leave him all alone in a totally different and far more horrifyingly final way.

And when put that way, Sam knows why he pays; why he continues to pay every single time. Because what he gets in return is Dean, fucked up, broken down, beautiful fucking Dean. And maybe the day will come when Sam just can't any more. When the con outweighs the pro of that gleeful happy smile and the sarcastic devious mind, and the thick heavy body that anchors Sam in place.

But it won't be today, and it won't be for this.

Sam sighs and puts his bottle down on the table then reaches out to cup his hand around the back of Dean's head pulling him closer. "I forgive you," he says.

Dean's pupil blows out like an explosion, the black swallowing the green until Dean looks stoned. "Wh…what?" he stammers, like he didn't hear, when Sam knows damn well he did.

Nonetheless, Sam pulls him closer until Dean's standing between Sam's outspread knees, Sam's mouth pressed up against Dean's ear. Calmly, he says, "I'm still here, Dean. I'm not going. I'm not leaving. And I forgive you." He pulls away again so he can see Dean's face, keeping his fingers curled through Dean's short, graying hair. "I forgive you."

Dean's usually so stoic about this kind of thing. Sam's seen statues that wept more readily than Dean. So he doesn't expect it when Dean's whole expression just _cracks the fuck open_ like brittle glass, leaving Dean stunned and more naked than Sam's ever seen.

Startled, a little scared, Sam pulls Dean into him again, hiding Dean's face against his shoulder protectively. Dean wouldn't want anyone to see. "Dean…"

"Shut up." Dean is trembling, soft definite tremors, and Sam can feel the wetness of tears soaking into his shirt, but Dean's voice is matter of fact, if scratchy. Sam pats Dean's back awkwardly, aware they're in the middle of a bar in the middle of Middle America and they might not take kindly to two dudes snuggling in front of God and everybody.

After a while, Dean lets out a sigh. "Really?" he asks. It sounds thicker and more gluey than last time.

Sam's mouth crooks. "Yes, really."

One last shudder and then Dean's pulling away, recomposed except for the streaked wetness of his face. "I'm sorry," he says, quiet, and Sam looks away because he can count on one hand the number of times those words have ever crossed Dean Winchester's lips in relation to him. "I just… I'm sorry."

Sam nods. "Okay."

Dean nods back. "Okay." He scrubs his face with the cuff of his shirt, rough and irritated and leaving behind red, abraded skin, as if it's something worse than tears. Or maybe for Dean there is nothing worse. He looks at Sam again. "I have a daughter, man."

Sam nods. 'I know."

"Like… _family_."

Sam smiles more easily, thinking of Chelsea's smile, her freckles, her quick, clever hands. "Yeah, Dean, exactly like that."


End file.
